


i can’t even save myself (so just save yourself)

by beetle



Category: Spider-Gwen (Comics), Spider-Woman (Comic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bullied Peter Parker, Butch Gwen, Butch/Femme, Drug Use, Drummer Gwen, Earth-65, F/F, Gwen-centric, GwenJay, Gwendo S., Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Laid Back Gwen is Not so Laid Back, M/M, Past Gwen Stacy/Peter Parker UST, Peter Parker's death, Stoner-Culture Gwen, The Mary Janes, Wasted Genius, Zendaya is forever my Mary Jane
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 02:09:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8647618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Spider-Woman is kicking ass and taking names when it comes to crime in New York City—and occasionally the New York City of alternate Earths . . . even that one that was all shrimp—Gwendo S. is killin’ it-killin’ it as the drummer for the cantankerous, but surprisingly talented Mary Janes. Yet Gwen Stacy, however, is . . . drifting, and has been since she failed to save her troubled best friend’s life five years ago. And if she couldn’t even save sweet, cheated Peter . . . how the hell can she save herself? Full prompt in end notes.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pyroperception](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyroperception/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Earth 65 AU. Takes place several years after Peter Parker’s death. Gwen and the other Mary Janes are college-age. George Stacy is still very much alive and kicking.

 

“You’re a total _beast_ on those skins, Gwendo. But, uh, let’s ill-chay with the showboating? Remember, there’s no _Gwen_ in _Team_ ,” Brant said in her snotty, mother-hen way when practice ended.

 

She’d already taken off her fancy, retro, sky-blue Les Paul and leaned it carefully against the wall of the Watsons’ garage. Grant was in the process of doing the same with her pearlescent Ibanez bass. The former was sipping from a bottle of _Fiji_ water. The latter was gnawing obsessively on her lack of fingernails.

 

“Yeah, but there’s a _my_ _foot_ in _your_ _ass_. That’s always, like, a distinct possibility,” Gwendo S., aka _Gwen Stacy_ , muttered, barely audible. But she heard a stifled, but infectious giggle-snort that could only belong to _one_ of the other three bitches she was in a damn band with.

 

“The solo _was_ pretty kick-ass . . . ya gotta admit, guys,” Watson said with unusual temerity after her giggle-snort passed. Lately, the brassy, ballsy babe hadn’t been quite up to her usual standards of brassiness and ballsiness. Even now, she glanced at Gwen as if looking for . . . permission? Absolution? Cuddles? A turkey and cheese on rye, extra mayo?

 

Who even knew? Women were mysteries. And fucking nuts. Except for the rare and occasionally persistent Mary Janes-groupies _Gwendo S._ sometimes followed home, _Gwen Stacy_ had sworn off women, and romantic and platonic entanglements after the nightmare that was high school prom.

 

But then, after prom, she’d sworn off a _lot_ of things. . . .

 

“Not sayin’ it wasn’t a bomb-ass solo, EmJay, just—it was showboating. And it cuts down on the time we have for other songs or talkin’ up the crowds.” Brant shrugged and this time, when Gwen spoke—“What crowds?” she muttered—she and Grant (or Grimace and Wince, as Gwen thought of them, on the unfortunate occasions when she had to) heard and turned matching cool gazes on her. “Whatever crowds deign to show up, dearest Gwendolyne.”

 

Unwilling to start yet another argument, Gwen grunted at Brant and her faux-sweet tone, and stretched her arms above her head, drumsticks held in both square, slightly grubby hands . . . then slowly lowered her arms behind her back, just to make Brant grimace and Grant wince. EmJay— _Watson_ , merely leaned against her older brother’s broke-down motorbike, and watched Gwen with those soft, unreadable brown eyes, trailers of electric-red hair clinging to her damp, heart-shaped face. Gwen quickly looked away, down at her skins, and continued her stretching/post-practice limbering.

 

“Ugh, why do you do that when you know we all find it freaksome?” Grant demanded, crossing her own rangy-long arms. They looked pale and Reed Richards-long without their omnipresent Ibanez.

 

“Mostly because ladies love a double-jointed bitch with a long tongue. Well, a certain _type_ of lady does, anyway,” Gwen said with her usual wistful lack of fucks to give, flicking her studded tongue out at the pair. Brant sniffed, Grant made a grossed-out face, and Gwen went on without any expression other than a slow blink. “Also, I do it because your tears and displeasure give me strength.”

 

“As evidenced by those beefy tree-trunks you call arms,” Grant huffed, and Brant snickered, high-fiving her bestie. And together, they glanced at Gwen for a reaction. But Gwen merely continued her stretching and limbering for a few more moments, then lowered her arms and blinked at Grimace and Wince again like she’d just woken up from a pleasant dream. Then she smiled vapidly, as if stoned, dilating her pupils so that there was only a thin ring of Stacy ice-blue surrounding them and Gwen, herself, could see even near-microscopic dust motes dancing in the early fall, late afternoon sunlight shining in the small, high-set windows.

 

“Actually, I call ‘em _guns_." Gwen flexed her pretty _cut_ biceps: tanned, lightly-tatted, bare, and shown-off to perfection in a sweaty, grey wife-beater. Then she pointed at Grant and sighted along her arm and index finger like they were an actual firearm and sight. "Not just because they’re strong and shit, but because I’m also pretty decent with firearms. I can shoot the eyes out of a squirrel with a .22 rifle at 150 yards, just like Pops taught me.”

 

So saying, Gwen depressed her thumb as if pulling a trigger, smirking and winking laconically at Grant, who shuddered. Off to the side, still, Watson snorted and cleared her throat.

 

Grimace and Wince lived up to their nicknames once more and hurriedly turned away to pack up their shit and get gone to their slumber party, or hair-braiding, or Justin Biebering, or whatever they did when they weren’t playing “band.”

 

EmJay— _Watson_ —was merely watching Gwen with those sienna eyes, her similarly-colored brows lifted slightly.

 

Gwen aimed nothing more threatening than that patented, stoner-smile at the redhead and shrugged once she’d lowered her arm into a more—well, _less disturbing_ position. She focused on her drums for a minute because she felt unusually discombobulated by Watson’s gaze, for some reason. Meanwhile, Grimace and Wince left, chatting about whatever classes they were taking at City College, without saying good-bye.

 

 _Weird_ , Gwen thought. Usually Watson, at least, was worth a toodle-oo from those other two. The three of them had been a clique all throughout high school, from what Gwen remembered. She, herself, had been busy with . . . other things and other people.

 

Lost in thought, she played _Wipeout_ at slightly super-human speed, just because she could and because it was better than acknowledging Watson’s eyes were still on her, curious, but otherwise hooded.

 

Eventually, Gwen became so absorbed in recreating Neil Peart’s best solos—her favorite being from _YYZ_ —that she didn’t notice Watson putting away her mic and tambourine, and exiting the garage with an absent: “Chill here for as long as you like, Gwendo,” and a concerned, confused look on her face.

 

#

 

“Hey, there, buddy . . . been a while.”

 

Spider-Woman’s voice, low and soft, sonorous, with a slight rasp, sounded in harmony with the autumn breeze in the trees and grass. Was quieter than the usual 4a.m. stirrings of Eternal Rest.

 

“Been meanin’ to come by, but I’ve been . . . busy. A lot. Mostly with my bullshit job as a PA at One-P-P and crime-fighting. Partly because of the usual bullshit with Mary Lames . . . I know, right?” Spider-Woman laughed briefly then sniffled, brushing away some dead leaves and grass, all crunchy and dead-brown, from the plot before her. When next she spoke, that sonorous voice had gone slightly foggy. “Hard to believe _my_ butch ass is in a band with those pampered _princesses_ , tryin’ to make it on the punk-scene, huh? I should be in a lab, somewhere, naming rats that I’ll almost certainly have a hand in killing. And you should be there, _with me_. Science Bros for life, remember. . . ?”

 

Kneeling at the grassy patch, Spider-Woman laid not a wreath or bouquet of flowers against the simple, polished-granite headstone, but instead sat a chili cheese-dog, loaded with everything but the kitchen sink, at the base of the stone, wrapped in nothing more than a few napkins.

 

She knew it wouldn’t last more than a few hours here, after she left. Either cemetery maintenance would remove it or the squirrels would get at it. Either way, there was no sense in making someone or something’s job harder.

 

Assuming a full lotus in front of the unassuming grave, Spider-Woman sighed and let her tired shoulders sag. It’d been a long night of crime-fighting, and she told Peter all about it. About the attempted robbery of the bodega near Flash Thompson’s place. The two attempted rapes—one in Jackson Heights, the other in Jamaica—the 7-train that’d nearly derailed one stop before Willett’s Point. Some damn kid’s pet iguana stuck up a maple tree on the way to the cemetery. . . .

 

Gwen talked till her throat was dry and clicking . . . till false-dawn was no longer so false and the birds were starting to stretch their vox-boxes in preparation for the day.

 

Soon, those same birds were greeting sun-up proper with full-throated songs that seemed to belie the death below them.

 

In the distance, she heard the gates to the cemetery creak open as the first shift of maintenance and management crews arrived slightly ahead of early-bird mourners. Smiling under her half-mask, she brushed gentle, gloved fingers across the few words on the stone, then smiled again.

 

“That’s my cue to am-scray, Petey-Boy. You stay outta trouble while I’m gone, y’hear?” she joked, knowing that if Peter Parker still existed in any shape or form and could hear her, he was rolling his eyes and wishing he could tear into that chili cheese-dog.

 

Leaning down slowly, Spider-Woman pressed her lips to Peter’s etched name, lingering for a few moments before drifting to the simple words below them:

 

**Beloved son and nephew . . . loyal friend . . . he was one of the good guys.**

 

Spider-Woman sat up with a sigh.

 

“Does the pain ever go away, Petey?” she asked suddenly, her fading voice also shaking, now. “I mean, does it at least lessen or fade, some? Or does it just keep getting duller and blunter, like a scalpel somehow morphing into a sledgehammer? Will any of it ever—” _make sense?_

 

Shaking her head, Spider-Woman stood up, squinting a little in a single, sharp ray of dawn-light. It was another two minutes of staring before her spidey-sense, erratic at best, prickled with a lazy alert and she dashed into a small copse of decorative trees, right arm flinging out with fluid control as webbing shot from her spinneret and she swung up into the gold- and orange-decked branches.

 

Less than half a minute later, a lone mourner carrying a single yellow carnation wandered into the obscure section of cemetery, and knelt much the same way Spider-Woman had, brushing two dead leaves away from the headstone, but leaving the chili cheese-dog.

 

The mourner stared at it, however, for long moments, before sighing and laying the carnation next to it and pasting on a sad smile.

 

“Hey, there, Tiger . . . you’re lookin’ _good_ today. May’ll be glad to hear that you’re still being taken such good care of, here. I’ll be _sure_ to tell her, too, when I stop by to see her later today. . . .”

 

TBC

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Prompt: “Enamor Me - Spider-Gwen/Mary Jane Watson. I just wanna see them pining after each other but I have no clue what girls like in each other. Girls like food and cuddles right?”
> 
> This was meant to be a drabble, droubble, or trabble . . . whoops?
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
